


yellow

by emmyeccentric



Series: electric colors [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BEDELIA YOU COULD DO SO MUCH BETTER BABE, F/M, Pining, Season 3, red dragon arc, so much fucking pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 11:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15662097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmyeccentric/pseuds/emmyeccentric
Summary: For a moment, the weak lights of the hospital make him look jaundiced. “Does she miss me, Will?”or, the color of illness, the clamminess of a fever; the stink of decay, cowardice, and all other things insidious.





	yellow

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I started a series based on a list of prompts from electric-couple on tumblr. I picked up where I left off.

_Could he feel a daily stab of hunger for you and find nourishment in the_ _very sight of you?_ , she murmurs, almost-tears threatening to betray her resentment.

* * *

“Her perfume is always delectable, isn’t it? Subtle, just enough gold primrose. Tell me, how is she, Will?”, Hannibal asks, back to the glass.

Will Graham throat tightens visibly. “Dishonest,” he muses. Hannibal hides his smirk as he turns, chin high.

“Bedelia Du Maurier is dishonest in the way that a wolf spider is, protected among the tawny soil, perfectly innocuous until someone tampers with her surroundings.”

“And then flesh rots,” Will smiles knowingly. “You taught her to bite from the beginning. Do your limbs still tingle, Hannibal?”

“She’s always been ready to show her teeth upon provocation. I just helped her realize it,” Hannibal muses, eyes unusually pointed at his feet. For a moment, the weak lights of the hospital make him look jaundiced. “Does she miss me, Will?”

“She’s ‘seen enough of you’, at least that’s what she says. Why don’t you ask her in one of your periodic notes, hm?”

Hannibal crosses the room to his cot, eyes closed with his arms beneath his head. Will thinks of being sixteen, wasting time after football games and sharing beer, talking about the Senior girls. “I don’t prefer cinema, but I do recall what Hitchcock said about his female protagonists. He preferred blondes in horror because it reminded him of bloody footprints in the snow.” The prisoner looks at Will, brows raised, and lips pursed in a smirk. “Be wary of the footprints, Will. It’s easy to get lost in those woods.”

“I dare to say you made a home there, Hannibal. Even though most would argue she followed your footprints, including the woman herself.The canary was lowered into the toxin of the coal mine and liked the way her song sounds off cave walls.”

Hannibal hums in what could be agreement. When Will leaves, he pulls out fresh parchment.

* * *

_Dearest Bedelia,_

_Forgive the unexpected correspondence, but you of all should know my infrequent surrenders to impulse._

_I am sorry Will Graham has not fallen under your spell like the rest of them. We both have an idea of why he may seem more antagonizing than others. I’m sure you’ve discussed it in therapy. Do you think of me as he sits where I sat? Can you see through his person suit as well?_

_Do you miss me, good wife? My favorite sessions of ours were in Florence, towards the end. Soothing for us both; I loved the silkiness of your hair between my fingers. Rumplestiltskin was offered a first born for spinning flaxen braids of gold, I’d like to think maybe in another life you would have offered me the same._

_How do you feel in the bath, Doctor? Or do you prefer the shower now? Does the tub make you afraid? Or do you preen in the resplendence of your carefully crafted stories? As your hands go under the water, I like to imagine those lovely fingers drifting to places we both know well._

_I wonder if dining on you in the ways I haven’t are comparable to the ways I have: drinking up the honey sweet between your thighs is a most tempting appetizer._  
  
_Regretfully, I do not have a recipe to share with you because my whimsy has cost me my cookbooks. I would recommend a Torta Della Nona al Limone. It reminds me of our summer in Tuscany; with freckles you looked downright enchanting, even though you covered them when we would be in mixed company._

_I’ve been keeping track of your clippings during your lecture series: you’re looking so much healthier now. I don’t know what was more irksome; you choosing not to sup with me or watching you waste away. You look happier now, are you? Will you ever be?_

_You should come visit. It’ll be worth Frederick Chilton’s glee for one hour to see your beautiful face._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal_

* * *

She clutches the yellow parchment while bile rises up into her chest. Her hands shake as she pours brandy. She fights nausea and a smile as she sips.

She will not see him, though she aches to. He never patronizes Will Graham like this, the bastard. But Will Graham never laid underneath the Tuscan sun, with lips lightly caressing his shoulder and the taste of Vino vert seeping across his tongue.

She’ll see which cookbook the critics are talking about, but nothing too marketable, and ship it posthaste to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Hopefully he’ll behave long enough to pick a recipe for Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m in med school now and I need to write about the King and Queen of Hell so I don’t go crazy :)


End file.
